Thyme to Live: A We Sisters Three Mystery (9 page)

“Get rid of the phone.”

I shook my head. “I have a better idea. Let’s send it for a ride.”

Two buildings to the right, a beer truck idled as its driver wheeled a pallet of kegs up a ramp, making a delivery to a neighboring establishment. I jogged over and slipped Helena’s cell phone into the open truck. It skidded across the metal floor and landed in the back corner.

With any luck, Gabriel’s goons would waste their time chasing the Budweiser guy from borough to borough while we figured out our next steps. I was feeling pretty clever when I rejoined Victor behind the Chinese restaurant.

“Now what?” I asked.

“Now we regroup. It’ll be dark soon. We should get off the street until we have a plan. It’s safe to assume those goons are working for Gabriel. He’ll be able to find me easily. And if he ties you to Helena through the Whittier-Clays ...”

I stared at him, feeling exponentially less clever by the second. “I’m not sure I follow. What are you saying? It’s not safe for me to go home?”

Victor raised his shoulders. “I don’t know. But I do know I’d hate myself if something happened to you. So, I think we should find a hotel for the night. And you should cancel your client appointments for tomorrow. Just in case.”

W
e walked for a long time
, taking a circuitous route to the subway station on Forty-Ninth Street. We took the N Train to Barclays Center. During the ride, which lasted about a half an hour, we talked in low voices, forehead to forehead, sketching out our next moves as we swayed from side to side with the car.

After Union Square, two seats opened up next to each other and we snagged them. I pulled out my phone and texted my next day’s clients an apologetic cancellation, citing a nasty bout of food poisoning. Then I sent Rosemary and Sage a long text, explaining that I was about to go dark for a day or two. I told them not to worry if they couldn’t reach me. Then I removed the battery from my phone and stowed it in my purse. I knew the warning text was useless. If anything it would probably make my sisters ramp up their level of concern, but I couldn’t just drop off the face of the earth with no notice. I’d have their hides if they ever pulled a stunt like that.

Beside me, Victor made whatever excuses he needed to make at work in a text of his own and then took out his phone’s battery. Neither of us were TeleVantage customers, but if Gabriel had the capacity to track Helena’s cell phone, there was no reason to think he couldn’t somehow get ahold of our phones’ locations, too.

And just like that, we were off the grid. Or, as off the grid as one could be taking New Your City public transportation to a hipster, boutique hotel in Brooklyn. I mean, sure, we weren’t exactly camping in a state forest and catching fish with our hands or anything. But without cell phones, we couldn’t order GrubHub or call for an Uber or anything. For two Manhattanites, our current situation was positively rustic. Primitive, even.

I giggled to myself about the absurdity of it all. He shot me a curious look then squinted at the station name that flashed by out the window.

“That was Canal Street. The next stop’s us,” he said.

We stood and fought our way through the crush of NYU students who’d boarded right after we’d found seats. We squeezed out the doors when they opened and hurried along the platform to the stairs.

The hotel was about half a mile from the station. We covered the distance in just under ten minutes, heads down, walking fast. I knew we looked like two ordinary New Yorkers, always in a hurry as we strode along the street.

But I felt anything but ordinary. I was on edge, half-expecting two Portuguese men to jump out from every doorway that we passed and gun us down in the middle of the sidewalk. I felt disconnected, adrift, and anonymous as a result of the simple act of turning off my phone. And, if I’m being honest, I felt a little shiver of anticipation at the thought of holing up in a hotel with Victor. I mean, I’d be getting my own room, but there was something undeniably intimate about disappearing together for the night. And he was a
great
kisser.

I shook my head at the silly tangent. Beside me, Victor said, “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” he stopped and pulled me out of the flow of foot traffic. We huddled against the side of a nondescript red brick building.

“I’m sure.”

“Because if you’re not—”

“I said I’m sure.” I waved away his worry.

He leaned in close and smiled, his mouth just a few inches from mine. “Good,” he breathed. “I’m getting used to having you around.”

His impossibly long eyelashes brushed his cheekbones as he glanced down for a moment then reached out and smoothed my hair back from my face. I tried to ignore my fluttering heartbeat as he covered my mouth with a searching kiss.
Yep, we were definitely going to need separate rooms.

“
I
’m terribly sorry
,” the desk clerk said in a nasal, not-even-remotely-sorry tone, “but I don’t have two rooms available for this evening. There’s a three-day craft beer symposium being held at the brewery around the corner, and we’re booked solid. There
was
a cancellation this morning, so I can offer you one room. A deluxe king with a partial view.” He shifted his gaze from Victor to me and back to Victor again, unable to keep his mild amusement off his face.

Victor looked at me and raised both eyebrows, as if to say, “It’s your call.”

I was hungry and tired of walking around. I didn’t want to schlepp to the next hipster boutique and hope for better luck. I wanted to raid a minibar for some overpriced booze and nuts and collapse into bed—alone.

“Is there a couch or anything in this deluxe room?” I asked, even though I suspected I knew the answer.

“No. But I can have housekeeping bring up a cot.”

Yippee, a cot.

“Sounds great,” I said, flashing a smile that no doubt looked nearly as fake as it felt.

The clerk followed suit with an insincere grin of his own. “Excellent.”

He clacked away at his computer keys and processed my credit card while I checked out the lobby. TripAdvisor had described the design as “open, airy post-industrial meets mid-century,” which apparently translated into lots of metal, glass, and wood. No fabrics. Backless chairs. And a dimly lit hotel bar.

“Your card, Ms. Field.” He passed my credit card and driver’s license, along with a recycled paper key card sleeve, across the counter. He pointed to the room number he’d scribbled on the sleeve in black marker and rattled off the directions to the elevator, which was plainly visible just to the right of the entrance to the bar.

I shoved my card into my wallet and handed Victor one of the two key cards. We set off across the vast lobby toward the elevator bank.

“Have a nice evening,” the clerk called in a strangled voice, as if he we were choking back a laugh.

“Is it just me or is that guy a weirdo?” I asked.

“He thinks we’re having an affair,” Victor explained. “Or at least a quickie.”

I blinked, startled, and felt my skin start to heat up. “Why on earth would he think that?”

He shrugged and jabbed the elevator call button. “We show up after five p.m. with no reservation and no luggage; you have a New York address on the ID you showed him; and, well, you’re pretty cute. Why wouldn’t he think that?”

Pretty cute?
I suddenly felt all of ten years old.
Why do guys think girls want to be described as pretty cute? I mean, I guess it beats smelly and humorless, but, jeez.
I pushed the thought out of my mind.

“Wait. I asked for two rooms. Who gets two rooms to have a … um ... quickie?”

“Paranoid cheaters, maybe? How should I know?”

The amber light over the elevator to our right blinked to life and the doors parted. As we stepped inside the empty car, I said, “So you’ve never dated a married woman?”

He stared at me, his lips slightly parted.

I pushed the button for our floor and said, “Oh, gosh, don’t answer that. I’m sorry, that was a really rude question. I used to do research into gender differences regarding monogamy. I asked all sorts of inappropriate, personal questions. Old habit,” I explained, mortified at myself, as the words cascaded out of my mouth like a verbal waterfall.

He furrowed his brow but nodded, like my explanation made at least a modicum of sense. “Monogamy research, huh?”

“Well, human behavioral psychology, but yeah.”

We reached the fifth floor and the elevator juddered to a stop with a loud thunk. He trailed me out into the hallway.

“To answer the question posed, no, I’ve never been involved with a married woman,” he said to my back.

I didn’t respond.

We reached our room and I inserted the key card into the reader. Nothing happened. I yanked it out and tried again. Still nothing. I huffed out an irritated breath. Victor reached over and plucked the card out of my fingers, flipped it around, and stuck it in the reader. The green light blinked and the metallic click sounded.

We were in.

I pushed open the door and walked inside. To say that the deluxe king room was small was to vastly overstate its size. It was teeny. The bed dominated the room to the point where I thought Victor might have to squeeze between the bed and the dresser sideways. I could barely fit, and I wasn’t exactly broad-shouldered. Where on earth would a cot go?

I sidled through the narrow space and pulled open the drapes. “Look at that. There actually
is
a view.”

Victor made his way to the window set into the exposed brick wall and peered over my shoulder. A sliver of the East River peeked out from between the buildings across the street, gleaming with reflected light, like a dark silk ribbon. Beyond it, Manhattan’s skyline rose in the dusk.

“What a city,” he breathed.

I leaned back and rested my head on his chest. He pulled me closer. I relaxed into his arms, ready to unwind after the day we’d had. Then I remembered Mia Kim. I shrugged out of his grip, twisted my neck, and stared up at him.

“Who’s Mia Kim?”

His face closed like a door. “I told you, I don’t know the name. She must be a friend of Helena’s. I never met her.”

I backed up another step and bumped into the rough surface of the brick wall. I kept my eyes glued on his. “I know you’re lying.”

He jerked his head back like I’d slapped him.

“I’m not …”

I tilted my head and arched my left eyebrow only—a talent my sisters envied and had been trying to replicate, without success, since we were kids. I said nothing.

“I didn’t …”

He took a small step backward and lowered himself until he was sitting at the foot of the bed.

“How?” he asked.

“How do I know you’re lying?”

He shook his head sadly from side to side. “Yeah.”

“There’s a checklist of common lying behaviors—physical and verbal telltale signs. I had to learn them in order to work as a research assistant in the psychology department. You exhibited, like, all of them. You’re a terrible liar.”

It was true, he’d been a textbook example. But I had no intention of ticking off
which
signs he’d shown. The ability to easily discern his truthfulness would be handy on an ongoing basis—or at least until we found Helena or figured out what had happened to her. I guess I shouldn’t assume there’d be any ongoing anything after that.

He gave a sheepish, knowing laugh. “Helena always said I couldn’t lie to save my life.”

I waited a beat. “So, Mia Kim.”

“Mia Kim was—is—Helena’s therapist.”

“Okay.” That still didn’t explain why he’d lied. I mean, at least half of New York City is in therapy. It’s not some dark, shameful secret.

He cleared his throat. “She was pretty messed up when she got here from Rio. Being with Gabriel had done a real number on her self-esteem. She was depressed, thought she was worthless. I honestly believe Mia saved her life.”

“Your sister was suicidal?” I asked gently.

He nodded wordlessly and hung his head.

I looked out the window at the lit-up skyline, jewels shining in the distance, and tried to think of something comforting to say. I wished Sage were here. She’d know the right words.

“I’m glad this Mia Kim person was able to help her,” I finally offered.

He looked up at me. “Me too. But there’s something else you should know.” He reached inside his breast pocket and pulled out a square of paper that had been folded into fourths. He unfolded it, smoothed out the wrinkles, and handed it to me.

It was a note from Helena:

D
ear Victor
,

I’m sorry, but I can’t do this anymore. He’s never going to let me live in peace. There’s no other way out.

I love you,

Helena

I
read
it a second time and then a third.

“What is this? Where did you get it?”

“It was on Helena’s bedside table the first time we went to her apartment. You were preoccupied with that comforter, so I slipped it in my pocket before you could notice it.”

“Why?”

“Why? Well, for one thing, it’s addressed to me. But, more importantly, I didn’t want you to see it and think it was a suicide note. Because that’s not what it is.”

“That’s what it sounds like.”

“I know that’s what it sounds like,” he said fiercely. “That’s what it’s supposed to sound like. So if Gabriel, or the police, or whoever found it, they’d think she went off somewhere to kill herself.”

“But?” I prompted.

“But, if Helena were going to write a private note to me, a note like that, she’d have written it in Portuguese, not English.”

“Probably,” I conceded. “But she called her therapist. That suggests she was in crisis, doesn’t it?”

“It could, but it could mean something else entirely. Read the note again,” he directed.

I obliged. “Okay.”

“What doesn’t it say?”

“You mean what
does
it say?”

“No, I mean what I said. What doesn’t it say?”

What was this? Some kind of Zen koan? I scanned the note again.

“I give up,” I said.

“It
doesn’t
say she’s going to kill herself. You see? But that’s where your mind went. And that’s also the conclusion the police will immediately jump to—especially, if they know about Mia.”

I reread the note. He was right.

“Okay, then what
do
you think she meant?”

He stood and started pacing as best he could in the tight space. “I think you may be right. I think she staged a fight scene with that fake blood and then took off.”

“But why?”

“Because Gabriel found her. Or was about to, anyway, and she knew it. So she’s gone into hiding. She probably called Mia for advice or support. And then she took off.”

“Did she give you any clues in this note? Any hints at where she is?”

“None.” A single word that weighed the world.

“Are you sure?”

He gave me a dark look. “I’ve read that damn note a hundred times, probably more. If there were a secret message, I’d have found it by now.”

“Sorry.” I felt bad pressing him, but if we were getting things out into the open, it was time for him to come clean about everything. I inhaled deeply and then hit him while he was down. “What about the box?”